


With a thousand sweet hisses, I'll cover you

by yolkinthejump



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Snake Crowley (Good Omens), Space-Heater Aziraphale, [az voice] i'm SOFT, cuddling for warmth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-06-26 01:39:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19757965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yolkinthejump/pseuds/yolkinthejump
Summary: Crowley loves Aziraphale's thighs.(See, it's cold, and he enjoys a good cuddle when he's human-shaped butespeciallywhen he's a serpent.)





	With a thousand sweet hisses, I'll cover you

Their cottage is adequately heated, of course, but Aziraphale and Crowley differ in both opinion and constitution when it comes to what is considered ideal temperature. And in these winter months, the cold of the outside can at times creep into Crowley’s bones, in league with the breeze off the Channel and ineludible as the changing of the season itself, rattling him like shutters in a storm.

Crowley refuses to harness the fires of Hell to heat himself. In spite of the flames being fine for a bath now and then, the energy they bring is naturally a tad off-putting to Aziraphale, and there’s no true warmth to be found there anyway.

Lest Aziraphale be thought in any way inconsiderate, it must be stated that Crowley _happily_ cedes to his husband in this matter; insists on it, in fact. The arrangement means Crowley gets to quell his chill in other ways—ways much more satisfying than the act of fiddling with a thermostat. Residing as he does in a mostly human form, what Crowley seeks is not quite brumation: during the day he carries on with little issue. Some nights, though, degrees dip and the lethargy weighs heavy on him and he turns to his snake form, the need to seek out a safe, insulated nook hard wired into the reptilian part of his brain.

The best place for this? The absolute, the pinnacle, the cornerstone of _true warmth_?

Aziraphale’s thighs.

Or Aziraphale in general, really: as a serpent Crowley tends to take up almost the same space he does as a human. Lucky for him Aziraphale has plenty of space to give. Crowley’s own personal hibernaculum.

Tonight is especially a treat. Aziraphale is wearing one of his charmingly outdated numbers, a nightshirt two centuries old and still a pristine, crisp white, cuffed sleeves and collar in good form, buttons all accounted for, hanging down to his ankles without a fray; it’s just about Crowley’s favorite bit of sleepwear in Aziraphale’s collection.

(He doesn’t wear anything under it, is the thing.)

Aziraphale sleeps on his back, hands resting mid-chest, prim and proper and all, voluminous comforter pulled over him just past his waist. Propriety is thrown eschew by the splay of his legs, however, made open by the long bulk of Crowley snug in between. The entire thick length of his serpentine body is coiled around him beneath the shirt. Nothing to separate scales and skin. The tail end of Crowley circles one ankle, under and over the other in a winding tangle that continues in much the same fashion up his legs, to where Crowley is buried between his opulent thighs, curving over hips, head tucked along the satin skin just above his pelvic bone. The finest sunning rock in all of Creation.

Burrowed, held tight in a dark cocoon, Aziraphale’s soft touch is all around him, his thighs a cradle of comforting, heavy pressure, his pliant body steady in sleep, rocking Crowley with gentle waves of life, transcendent. Crowley flicks a tongue out, tastes the musk of him in the air, the nearby curl of hair and the vulnerable sex underneath a roaring heat. The intimacy of it soothes him, wraps around his heart, the warmth making him the best kind of dozy. The angel radiates it from all his edges—glory of Heaven and whatnot, Aziraphale runs hot.

Crowley basks in the balm, soaks it up in his scales. 

He’s been doing the whole sleep thing pretty much since it was invented. He enjoyed it before he knew he was capable of truly enjoying anything. The letting go of it, the fall—lowercase f—into peace was there when he needed it most. The gratification in an escape. Nowadays he thinks of it more as a path to renewal. Fitting, really: every day that he wakes up he wakes up next to home, and _love_ , and possibilities, unencumbered like he’d never dreamed. 

Considering that sleep was, for millennia, one earthly pleasure Aziraphale found wanting, it didn’t take all that long, relatively, to convince him of its merits. Afternoons spent curled on his lap. Nights of Crowley pulling Aziraphale close, encouraging him to indulge, to allow himself to be tired out. A lazy stretch in the morning, making a show of his satisfaction.

One evening in bed Aziraphale had simply put his book down and gathered Crowley to him, lain with him and kissed the crown of his head, and closed his eyes. The sheet covered them and the lights extinguished with a wave of his hand. He’d slept. They’d slept.

Aziraphale had never looked back. Added it to the list of indulgences. Another successful temptation. 

There is a murmur, faint above. A delicate little sigh is all it takes to stir Crowley, to fill him with such single-minded tenderness the only thing he can think is, _Closssser_ , instinct of the serpent nursed for six thousand years taking over, wanting, needing to _see_ him— 

The next second he’s slithering slowly upwards, keeping under the woolly winter fabric of the gown as he adjusts his circumference slightly (it’s barely a conscious thought; he wants to fit, so then he can), the bulk of him dragging measured and sinuous. Aziraphale’s body yields to his weight, dips and curves around him as he makes the easy journey from between his legs, over the swell of his belly, to come to a still with his head against his chest. The skin there is so decadently soft, plush as any pillow. Crowley is drawn to the vibration of his human heart, can feel the rhythm resonating in his jaw as he rests there. 

His change in position has brought the weight of Aziraphale’s hands over Crowley now, yet another layer, another log added to the fire. Burning like a hearth even through the nightshirt.

Aziraphale had forgone buttoning up that evening, leaving his neckline wide. From his new position on his chest, just peeking out from under the tent of the shirt, Crowley can watch his face in sleep unhindered. Sight is not his strongest sense just now, but this close he can make out the tilt of his head on the pillow, the delicate dip at the base of his throat. The picture he paints, eyelids shuttered, radiating calm, is such a simple, human thing, once so foreign to him, and it tugs at Crowley, at the core of him. Aziraphale looks even softer, even more lovely in repose, mouth open ever so slight as he breathes, a shade of a smile upon his lips. Twee nightcap slipping off his head, white-blond curls a sideways halo in the dark. 

Ponderous as he is in his half-awake state, Crowley squirms a bit, undulating to pull himself around Aziraphale, gather him tight to him again. His whole long body coils in until every inch is against Aziraphale, luxuriating in the pyre of him. Aziraphale’s thighs burn brands anew along Crowley’s middle. 

Aziraphale shifts, his body tensing, heart increasing in a way that signals wakefulness.

Sometimes it’s as if all the feeling inside Crowley is screaming. Not in any way painful (not anymore): it’s a joyful, bubbling thing. But intense. Rending at his edges. He can’t help it—he spent so long holding it back, _just so_ , it can get away from him, now that it’s been given permission, so to speak. Aziraphale has told him with much adoration how loud Crowley can be, how delightful he finds his loss of control. Crowley thinks maybe it’s not only his clinging that’s woken him. 

A deep, drawn breath and Aziraphale drags his eyes open on the exhale, his tongue sneaking out to wet his lips. Crowley mirrors his action, chasing the taste of him. Briefly a crease appears between his eyebrows as he shifts and realizes he can’t, not fully, before he registers Crowley’s hold and softens.

“ _Oh_.” Aziraphale’s mouth curves in fondness as he gazes down at Crowley. “Why, hello, sweetheart.”

Crowley flicks a tongue at him again. The chemical receptors hum a familiar, satisfied tune: _my mate. He is with me. He sees me, and I see him_. Crowley squeezes him all over in greeting and hisses, “Dark _sss_ till.”

With a yawn, Aziraphale mumbles, “Is it?” He blinks, glancing groggily about the room. “Ah, good. Good.”

“S _ssl_ othful angel.” Crowley sticks his head towards him and preens as Aziraphale pets him, smooth scales warmed from his time against Aziraphale’s skin. _That’sss you_ , he thinks. _Sharing yourself. From the firsst_. His head just fits into Aziraphale’s hand as Aziraphale cups him in his palm, rubs his knuckles gently under his chin. 

Aziraphale gives a tiny, lilting giggle that catches on another yawn. Tipsy with the Love in the air. “I suppose I am.”

“’re _sso_ warm. Sso _ssss_ o s _ss_ ssoo…” He hisses a sigh. “Wonder took ‘ou _ss_ ssoo’ong.” Speaking as a snake can be a mixed bag. Damn, he’s tired.

“What’s that, dear?”

“T’ _s_ sssleep. Iff you like it s _so_ much.”

“Mmh. Waiting for the right partner,” murmurs Aziraphale. He pets Crowley again, fingers emanating the sweetest heat, from the curve of his head to his nose. He taps him there lightly. “Silly question… silly thing…”

The battle against the weight of his eyelids is a losing one.

Crowley, losing his battle against his own, well, metaphorical eyelids, squeezes Aziraphale again, flexing. It should be stifling, the power and muscle and heft of Crowley smothering, but Aziraphale lets out a low moan, tapering out in a hum, and melts into him. Crowley watches his lips curve and his mouth go soft. It’s to do with holding and being held; it’s to do with the freedom of allowing yourself either, after so long a denial. There is a profound security in knowing one is both being taken care of and doing the care taking in turn, openly, without reservation or illusion otherwise. A mutual, acknowledged love. 

The weight of Crowley, the weight of _them_ , tangled together after so long kept apart, is ever a bone-deep fulfillment. Crowley lays his head back on Aziraphale’s chest, giving the tiniest wiggle as he does so, nestling further down into the lavish plush of him, as close as he can get.

Aziraphale makes a soft noise of contentment and his caresses still, his hand resting on the crown of Crowley’s head. A canopy of care. Crowley feels tension drain from Aziraphale as he falls back to slumber, and allows himself to follow, lulled under by the steady sway, the rise and fall of Aziraphale breathing all around him, his world narrowed to a sanctum of tranquil, divine warmth.

**Author's Note:**

> ଘ(੭*ˊᵕˋ)੭* ̀♥-~＞⌽⸝⸝))ニニニニニニニニニニ～
> 
> The title is from RENT's "I'll Cover You." Altered. Obviously.
> 
> Thank you for reading! Say [hi](https://yolkinthejump.tumblr.com) :)


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